Pariah
by hyacinthian
Summary: And that's the root of it all. They're unwanted. [IceAnybodys]


West Side Manhattan seems to envelope them in its dirty glory: crimes that brazenly proclaim who's to blame. Night seems to make the shadows of the city more intimidating. Sharp, jutting angles point from every corner and every shadow. But she's been a master at leaping from shadow to shadow. If she thinks hard enough, she's sure she could become a shadow.

Her hair is cropped defiantly short, rusty locks falling in clipped sections and pieces. Bruises decorate her forearms, bluish tints barely rising to the surface. Defensive. But no one would believe her. She's just a pariah. But where can you go when you don't feel safe at home? The answer is nowhere. Because she could be Anybody. Things seem to gain importance when they're capitalized. She blots her name on everything but her birth certificate. She needs something to remember the bastards by.

The light slowly begins to steal in, and content sighs emerge from her throat. Her head remains stationary on his bare chest. He stirs softly, and tries not to wake her. She stirs, but doesn't wake, signs of a lifetime of restless sleep. Pale rose lips part slightly, revealing softness and vulnerability he knows exist. He smiles despite himself.

He wanders through the cramped spaces, picking up his scattered clothing and quickly donning it. This apartment is all he has left of his parents. He's another of the city's abandonment cases that they're too busy to check up on. But he doesn't mind. The Jets are his family now. And he's fine knowing that he's Riff's replacement. He'll be the father he never imagined he could be, and he'll be better than his damn father ever was.

He opens the refrigerator, bare to the very plastic, and retrieves an overripe apple. He stares out at the sun, beginning to peak on its pedestal of glory, and he wants to swear. To shout, to lament. His whole fucking life can't be about his parents, or his childhood, or getting rid of the fucking PRs. He has to teach himself that to be in a gang, to lead one, you have to have emotions sometimes, and leave them behind at others. But how can you make a switch? He shakes his head and bites into the apple. The tanginess hits him first, the tartness making his face contort slightly in a wince. This is breakfast. This is life. And all he wants to do his shut his eyes and sleep. Truly sleep, and feel at ease. He smiles. That'll never happen.

She's lonely too. They're two murderers in a prison cell. They know what they want, and what they need. He didn't need Velma after Riff died. She was never really his girl anyway. But he didn't love Anybodys either. Not yet. He knew he could, that was just how he was, and who he was. He knew she was grateful that he listened to her. The first one to ever give her a chance. He saw the bruises on her arms, battle scars from people that should be allies. _Fucking alcohol_, he thinks. _Turns people into monsters. _Maybe that's why they're drawn to each other. They're both shards, fragments of a whole piece of glass, but she's stained. She's colored with beautiful tints and highlights. He wasn't that arrogant to think that she was happy because of him or his acceptance of her into the Jets, and into his life. He probably wasn't the first man to give her affirmation. But he wouldn't be surprised if he was. He takes another bite of the apple, wrapping his lips around the tartness this time, and says the words in his head. _Ya done good, buddy boy. _She smiled at him, and he returned it. It was his first glance of forgiveness.

She wakes soon after. She's never been much of a deep sleeper, but her body needed the rest. She blinks a few times to clear her vision, and her eyes settle on the image of him, leaning against the corner, eyes unfocused, thinking. She doesn't want to pretend that he's Prince Charming on a white stallion, ready to save her from every cochroach and rodent in New York City. She found out long ago that life doesn't work like that. But it's the first time she's felt anyone care anything for her. And she likes the feeling.

She gravitates towards him, lips still slightly parted, in a slow response to the action of waking up. She presses her body against him. She's thin, almost to the point of being gaunt, and he doesn't have the money to feed both of them well. He barely can scrape up the money each month to pay the rent. She kisses him, a full kiss, and he leans to it, allowing her a taste of the tartness of the apple. "Good morning." Things are always subtle between them. Nothing is ever spoken bluntly or obviously. He gives a slight tilt of the head, before leaning in to kiss her again. She acquieses to his request, as his hand reaches down to the small of her back, pulling her closer. He can feel her every contour, every slight curve, every bit of softness. He feels drunk. Maybe that's what l—JDs don't speak like that. But he could ignore the fucking rulebook where that's listed right now.

Perhaps that's the best thing about needing each other. They don't have to say anything. It's not a rapport to the point where it's practically telepathy. It's something else. It's a connection. But there's too many clichés, too many A-list Hollywood films, too much speculation from every twelve-year-old that thinks they're in love. So they're not in love yet. They could be. Perhaps they are. But they're both in denial. They're two glass shards, caught on the hot asphalt in the unblinking sun. They shine and sparkle with all their worth, but no one stops and picks them up. No one even takes a glance. They aren't noticed. And that's the root of it all. They're unwanted.


End file.
